How Can You Expect Me To Be Funny When The World's Going To End?

Given these two indisputable truths, it's time for me to quit comedy and devote my life to preparing for the apocalypse.

First thing's first: I need to learn how to find a weapon to protect myself with.

As of right now, I've been devoting my life to learning how to craft a joke out of anything. This has gotten me nowhere because my delicate feminine brain can't even connect the dots between "Knock Knock" and "Who's There?". Is it a comma or is it a period? I just don't know!

When the hell hounds of Tartarus scour the world in an attempt to pick off humanity's last survivors, we'll need to protect ourselves. I won't be able to get a gun because of liberal laws that require paperwork and because paperwork scares my feeble mind. I'll have to take the only useful thing I own--a broom--and learn to sharpen it with my nail file so I can use it as a spear.

For those of you protesting that the first survival skill I should learn is "How To Build a Fire", I say, "Don't be silly." When the world ends, everything will be covered in fire. All I will need is some kindling. Did you know that the corpses of atheists can be used as kindling?

Second thing's second: I need to find a man who will protect me in exchange for sexual favors.

One of the saddest things about being a female comedian and writer is that it makes you so gosh darn masculine without any of the benefits of being a man. For instance, before I started doing stand up comedy, I had a vagina. Now, I have a vagina I have to constantly make terrible jokes about and I have a penis.

It is a little known fact that when a woman tells jokes, the silence that occurs because the woman is so completely unfunny forces extreme amounts of testosterone into her clitoris. The more jokes a woman tells, the larger her clitoris becomes until it is no longer a clitoris, but a full grown comedy penis.

I not only have this comedy penis, but I also keep a roll of salami in my pants at all times. It's for symmetry.

Now, once the world ends, those left alive will be constantly battling for survival (see the aforementioned hell hounds). Even with my broom spear, I'll be mostly helpless because ladies don't have the upper body strength to lift anything above their elbows--unless that something is a handkerchief that they've raised to their forehead as they are fainting. So, I will need to find a man to protect me.

Because comedy has deformed me in such a sexually displeasing way, I am going to have to train myself to be the most perfect, quiet, and demure woman who has ever lived. I will also learn how to give the best blow jobs in the history of the world. These two qualities together will ensure that a powerful man will take me to be his wife or his mistress or his concubine or his assistant or his slave girl (any will suffice as I just need a strong man to protect me).

So, if you see me between now and the apocalypse, please engage me in conversation. I need practice deferring to anything someone else says. Instead of following the improv comedy game of "Yes, And", I need to make sure I always say "Yes, Sir." Also, if you know any guys who like blow jobs, please give me their number.

Last thing's last: I need to prepare my body for babies.

Now that I no longer need to worry about dazzling men with my nonexistent wit, I can focus on pleasing them with my fertility.

Should any innocent souls survive this year's apocalypse, and the hell hounds, and the fires, we're going to need to be ready to reproduce. I humbly offer my hips, womb and remaining lady areas to mankind. If my comedy penis could ejaculate sperm, I would offer it, too. (As it happens, the only thing that squirts out of a comedy penis is bitterness.)

It's taken me a while to realize this, but the only thing a woman is good at is giving birth to men. Women aren't smart, women aren't brave and women certainly aren't funny. Hence, once the world ends, the only positive thing I can possibly contribute to mankind's struggle will be more men.

And if the world doesn't end this year, then I suppose the joke will be on me. The only problem will be is I won't be able to laugh at it because my pea-sized girl brain clearly can't grasp irony.